


He Who Must Be Loved

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Traveling Man [33]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Masturbation, Other, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12265260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Chuck discovers that Atlantis has been watching them.Featuring rampant misuse of Latin grammar lessons, how the Expedition does the laundry, and possibly Miko Kusanagi's dirty doujinshi.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Room Amenities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24695) by [Slybrarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slybrarian/pseuds/Slybrarian). 



> Written for the story_works A Day In The Life challenge and the Shoobie Monster Fest tentacle day.
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> Super, super thanks to Brumeier the awesome beta work and reassuring me that this piece wasn't proof that I had gone insane. 

_Day 97_   
_0530 AST_   
_Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bedroom, Lorne E, imperator tertius_

Evan woke up when the alarm on his wristwatch started to beep. He blinked blearily, fumbled at the buttons on the edge of his watch to turn off the alarm, sat up in a single fluid movement. His dogtags caught on the collar of his shirt for a moment, then fell, bounced against his chest. He shook his head like a dog shaking off water, blinked again, looked much more alert. He slid out of his bed, landed on his feet, shook out his limbs. He stumbled into the bathroom to relieve himself, then back out to the bedroom.

Barefoot and clad only in a uniform tank top and white boxer briefs, his hair mussed, he looked - vulnerable. Sweet. The ink on his right shoulder was visible - swirling, intricate, stark against his golden skin. When he leaned over to make his bed - military neat, hospital corners, sheets so crisp he could bounce a quarter off of them - the collar of his shirt gaped, hinted at the ink on his chest. Something even more ornate, coiled, twining. Serpentine. (An oroboros, to those in the know.)

He smoothed his hands over the sheets and coverlet, fluffed the pillow, then dropped to the floor beside the bed, cranked out push-ups. He counted them out softly, as rhythmic and orderly as any airman in basic. Sweat started to gleam at his collarbones and across his back when he hoisted himself onto the pull-up bar in the doorway from the bedroom to the bathroom. He counted out loud, quickly and efficiently. He used the little desk chair to do tricep dips. He moved through the simple body weight resistance exercises precisely, from one to the other to the other to the other.

When he was done with his last deadlift, he tugged on a pair of running shorts, socks, sneakers, and headed for the door.

 

 _0600 AST_ _  
_ _Exterior: Central Tower Crew Quarters Atrium, Level 21, imperator tertius et contubernium tertius_

The rest of AR-3 was assembled and waiting in the atrium when Evan arrived. He greeted his men, then assigned Lieutenant Billick to lead the team on their morning run. Billick and Negley were Air Force, but Coughlin and Reed were Marines, and they had different sets of marching jodies they preferred. Given that they could run into civilians - or command staff - at pretty much any time, Evan’s rule was that the jodies they chose had to be ones their mamas would approve of, which meant they rotated the same half a dozen jodies over and over again. An observant Atlantean denizen could know the day of the week by which jody Evan’s team was chanting as they went.

Billick liked the outdoor running paths, along the balconies, to watch the sun rise across the oceans of Lantea. Negley liked to take the team up and down a lot of stairs. Coughlin liked to run across the catwalks above the bigger rooms in the city, liked the echo of their footsteps on metal, how it seemed like they were flying (he’d harbored a not-so-secret desire to be a pilot, been disappointed it wasn’t an option for an NCO, hadn’t realized sergeant pilots hadn’t been a thing since WWII, but he had the Gene and now he was allowed to fly jumpers). Reed liked to run down semi-deserted hallways, the ones explored and cleared of safety hazards but that were otherwise a mystery. Once he was done with his hitch, he wanted to go home and become a detective.

After the run, they did their cool-down stretches, and then they dispersed into their separate quarters to clean up.

 

 _0630 AST_ _  
_ _Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bedroom, Lorne E, imperator tertius_

Evan took off his running shoes and nudged them into place beside his other pairs of shoes (he had three other pairs of shoes - flip flops, ordinary loafers, and his combat boots). He peeled off his sweat-damp tank top and dropped it into one of his three laundry baskets (darks, lights, whites). He selected clean clothes for the day - underwear, socks, uniform shirt, uniform pants - and assembled them in a neat pile. He set those clothes on the bathroom counter, then kicked off his socks. He hooked his thumbs into the top edge of his boxer briefs, stripped them off, and dropped them and his socks into the basket of whites.

Naked, he padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

 

 _0635 AST_ _  
_ _Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bathroom, Lorne E, imperator tertius_

Evan stuck a hand into the spray to test the temperature before he ducked under it. He stood facing the spray, head tipped back, smiling faintly. His lashes were spiky-wet, formed dark crescents against his cheekbones. Then he turned away and wiped the water out of his eyes, and reached for a bottle of standard-issue shampoo. He was humming faintly as he squirted a dollop onto his hand, flipped the cap shut with his thumb, set the bottle on the shower shelf, and cradled the shampoo delicately in his palm. He was still humming as he worked the shampoo into a white sudsy lather. His hair was black under the water, and he scrubbed at his scalp with quick, frenzied hands before he ducked his head back under the spray to rinse his hair out. He closed his eyes just in case, adjusted the angle of his head so the soap didn’t run toward his eyes.

His hair wasn’t quite shampoo-free when he reached out blindly for the shower shelf, felt along the flat edge to a bar of soap, scooped it up. Evan washed himself methodically, started with his face, made sure to scrub behind his ears and the back of his neck, out along one arm, then out along the other. He scrubbed at his own back as best as he could, then at his chest, brought his knees up one at a time so he could wash his legs. So meticulous was he that he washed between his toes.

Under the water his skin gleamed, and the sliding soap suds emphasized the planes of his muscles, the patch of dark hair on his chest, the darker trail of hair that led from belly to groin. By the time Evan was done washing and rinsing his body, his hair was completely rinsed as well. Of course. Two birds, one stone. Such was the efficiency of Major Evan Lorne, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard’s second-in-command, chief logistics officer, commander of AR-3.

Evan went to set the soap back on the shelf, paused. There was a brief flare of blue light as he adjusted the water temperature with his mind - natural Gene carriers had some unfair perks in the city. He spun the bar of soap in one hand, working it into a lather. Was he a little OCD? Was he going to scrub between his toes again? It would explain why he was so organized and efficient, why his routine every day was exactly the same whenever possible (and okay, maybe it wasn’t an OCD thing, wanting some sense of normalcy amidst the chaos that was life in Atlantis).

Only instead of washing between his toes again, Evan reached between his own legs, grasped his hardening cock, reached up with his other hand to play with his own nipples -

 

 _“Holy shit!”_ Chuck yelped and slammed on one of the console buttons.

The image froze.

He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, but no one else was looking. Hurriedly he typed another series of commands into the console, and the image vanished.

“Something the matter?” Amelia asked.

Chuck swallowed hard. “Just a minor system malfunction.” He tugged at his collar, hunched his shoulders, and leaned in, studied the lines of code on the command prompt screen. He still wasn’t quite fluent enough in Ancient to code directly into the console, but between Miko and Rodney, the patch to get Tau’ri and Ancient computers to communicate with each other worked well enough that he could run a deeper diagnostic to make sense of what was going on.

Chuck typed rapidly, heart pounding, mind spinning. When he’d first realized someone had hacked into the city’s built-in security feeds and was caching feed data, he’d been terrified it was a Wraith virus or somehow a Genii virus or maybe even a Goa’uld virus, stealing data from Atlantis about its personnel, its security systems. The file directory had been tucked into a seemingly innocuous corner of the Atlantis servers and might have gone unnoticed - if it hadn’t tried to back itself up on a databurst to Earth.

It took Chuck several hours, multiple cups of coffee, and missing lunch to figure it out. When he did, he sat back, stared at the screen, confused and a little afraid. Then he tapped his radio.

“Control for Senior Command.”

Weir answered first.

“Yes, Chuck?”

“There’s something you have to see.”

“How have to is _have to?”_ Rodney asked. “Because I’m in the middle of -”

“We’ve had a security breach,” Chuck said in a low voice. He glanced at Amelia, but she and Radek were huddled over Radek’s laptop, tapping away at something together. Neither of them had really spoken to him all day. They had no idea what was going on. He didn’t want to risk any kind of mass hysteria.

“Be right there,” Sheppard said.

“No, sir,” Chuck said. He unplugged his laptop. “Rodney, I’m coming to you.” He scooped up his laptop and scooted for the nearest transporter.

Weir and Sheppard met him in the corridor outside of Rodney’s so-called Batcave, where he went to work when he wanted to be in peace (or when he’d pissed off the rest of the lab personnel and needed to let them cool off).

Rodney was surrounded by papers, whiteboard markers, and empty coffee mugs. “What is it? This experiment is critical to -”

Chuck plugged his laptop into the console, opened a command prompt window, started drilling down through Atlantis’s server layers until he found the folder marked _Amanda._

“Atlantis is watching us,” Chuck said.

“What do you mean, watching us?” Sheppard’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline.

Chuck clicked on a random folder, _97-dies_ , and then on the first file, _0530/cubiculus/imperator-3,_ and a video fired up.

 

_Evan woke up when the alarm on his wristwatch started to beep. He blinked blearily, fumbled at the button on the edge of his watch to turn off the alarm, sat up in a single fluid movement. His dogtags caught on the collar of his shirt for a moment, then fell, bounced against his chest. He shook his head like a dog shaking off water, blinked again, looked much more alert. He slid out of his bed, landed on his feet, shook out his limbs. He stumbled into the bathroom to relieve himself, then back out to the bedroom._

 

Weir’s brow furrowed. “That’s Major Lorne.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course. Why does this matter?”

Chuck shut down the video, clicked on the next file, _0600/centralis-turrim-atrium-21/imperator-3-contubernium-3,_ opened it up.

 

_The rest of AR-3 was assembled and waiting in the atrium when Evan arrived. He greeted his men, then assigned Lieutenant Billick to lead the team on their morning run._

 

“Lorne takes his team running every morning,” Sheppard said, and of course he knew the basic routines of most of Atlantis’s military personnel. “I don’t understand, Chuck.”

“It gets worse,” Chuck said, and closed the file, opened another. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You might want to look away.”

 

_Evan washed himself methodically, started with his face, made sure to scrub behind his ears and the back of his neck, out along one arm, then out along the other. He scrubbed at his own back as best as he could, then at his chest, brought his knees up one at a time so he could wash his legs. So meticulous was he that he washed between his toes._

 

“A naked man is hardly offensive,” Rodney began, but then he turned bright red, darted a glance at Weir.

Her expression was pale. “This a gross invasion of privacy for all our personnel. Security feeds from the bathrooms?”

Chuck shut the video down before it got explicit.

“You said we have a security breach,” Sheppard said.

Chuck nodded. “Atlantis has been storing video feeds of our personnel in a near-invisible file in the forgotten cellars of the servers. I wouldn’t have even noticed the file if Atlantis hadn’t sent a portion of it through to Earth with the weekly databurst.”

Weir frowned. “You say _Atlantis_ sent a portion of the file through.”

“Yes, ma’am. I searched and searched for anyone who might have input the command, did a virus sweep using parameters that encompass Wraith and Goa’uld technology. No signs of a virus. No other personnel besides myself have accessed this file, let alone know it exists.” Chuck swallowed hard. “Like I said, Atlantis is watching us, and I don’t know why.”

Predictably, Rodney elbowed him aside. “When was this file created?”

“Ninety-seven days ago, according to the file logs,” Chuck said.

“Which can be altered,” Rodney said, tapping away at Chuck’s laptop.

“With all due respect,” Chuck said, “you’re a physicist and an engineer, not a hacker. Apart from Dr. Kusanagi, Dr. Naoe, and maybe Dr. Ramanujan, no one is completely undetectable on the servers. Not even you.”

Rodney frowned his crooked (okay, sometimes endearing) frown. “You’re a gate tech, not a -”

“Everyone on Atlantis has a secondary role,” Chuck said quietly.

Sheppard was The Gene. Weir was The Ambassador. Rodney was The MacGyver.

Sheppard rubbed his chin. “Where’s the strategic value of Major Lorne in the shower and running with his teammates? Other than - routines. Weak spots. He’s not on alert when he’s in the shower. His entire team runs at the same time, showers at the same time when they’re not offworld. Same with all our other teams.”

“Was Atlantis trying to send the data to anyone in particular?” Weir asked.

“I didn’t see any specific recipient in the metafile,” Chuck said. “The compressed folder wasn’t attached to an email or anything either. It was just hidden among the rest of the data. I think maybe Atlantis was -”

“Making a backup. On Earth.” Rodney straightened up. “You think Atlantis is watching us all?”

“What other explanation do you have, for video footage of showers?” Chuck asked.

Weir darted a wary glance at the ceiling.

Then Sheppard leaned in. “Have you looked through all the files?”

“No. There’s nearly three thousand hours of footage in there, some of it from earlier today,” Chuck said, and oh hell, how would he ever look Major Lorne in the eye? Not that jerking off in the shower wasn’t the neat, efficient way to clean pipes, but - “The databurst was today. I only caught this today.”

“Is Atlantis watching _everyone_ , or just members of senior command, or what?”

“So far the only videos I’ve seen are of Major Lorne,” Chuck said. “They’re short. He doesn’t spend long in one place very often.”

“True,” Sheppard murmured. He backed up a level, clicked on another subfolder, _96-dies,_ and clicked on the first file.

 

 _Day 96_   
_0530 AST_ _  
Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bedroom, Lorne E, Major, imperator tertius_

_Evan stirred when the alarm on his watch went off. He fumbled blindly for his watch, poked at the buttons till the alarm shut off. Then he opened one eye, squinted at his watch face._

_“Ha,” he mumbled. “Sunday.” Then he rolled over, burrowed into his pillow, dragged his coverlet over his head, and kept on sleeping._

_In sleep, Evan was mostly still, only the occasional twitch beneath the covers._

 

“Are we just going to watch Major Lorne sleep forever?” Rodney asked. “Obviously he’s sleeping in. It’s his designated Sunday.” He reached out, tapped the laptop’s trackpad, scrolled through the video to where Major Lorne started to wake up.

 

 _0730 AST_ _  
_ _Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bedroom, Lorne E, Major, imperator tertius_

_Evan pawed aside the coverlet, yawned, and flopped onto his back. He sighed gustily, folded his arms behind his head, stared at the ceiling. He yawned again, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, humming happily, he closed his eyes, tipped his head back, reached beneath the covers -_

 

“That’s enough,” Elizabeth said. Her tone was calm but color was high in her cheeks. “Are all of these videos of Major Lorne?”

Chuck clicked on the next video. Major Lorne in the hallway, going for a run by himself. The next video was of Major Lorne coming back from his run and stripping down to get into the shower. The video after that was of Major Lorne, in civilian clothes, headed through the corridors of Atlantis to the mess hall for breakfast. And then Major Lorne eating breakfast alone in the mess hall. And then Major Lorne headed through the corridors of Atlantis back to his quarters. And then Major Lorne in his quarters gathering up a sketchpad and a box of pencils.

“Try another subfolder,” Sheppard said.

Chuck clicked on _27-dies,_ and sure enough, all of the video folders in it were of Major Lorne going about his day. Every single moment of every single day, save for when he was offworld, accounted for.

“What’s in the first folder?” Weir asked.

Chuck opened it, clicked on the first video.

At first the footage staticky, grainy, dizzying as Atlantis flipped through camera after camera after camera to the now-familiar interior of Major Lorne’s quarters. He was unpacking a duffel bag and talking to himself.

 

_“ - Did it. Finally made it to Atlantis.” Major Lorne stowed his empty duffel bag under his bed, then sat down on the edge of it, unlaced his boots. When he was finally barefoot, he flopped back on the bed with a happy sigh, arms behind his head. “Hello, Atlantis. Nice to finally meet you. Be good to me, okay?”_

_The camera zoomed in on him, too close, blurred his features, adjusted. Fixed on him._

_He rolled over and dropped off to sleep in that uncanny way soldiers and Marines and airmen had._

 

“I think it’s safe to say that Atlantis is watching Major Lorne,” Rodney said.

“Do you think it’s a security breach after all?” Chuck scratched the back of his head.

“It’s still a breach of privacy.” Weir frowned. She reached toward the laptop. “May I?”

Chuck, Rodney, and Sheppard all shuffled backward to give her room.

She navigated up one level so only the main folder was displayed. _Amanda._

“Why did Atlantis name the folder that?” Sheppard asked.

“That’s assuming Atlantis really is behind this,” Rodney muttered.

“Does someone named Amanda have a really creepy crush on Major Lorne?” Sheppard squinted at the screen. “I’m not exactly an expert in these things, but Major Lorne’s not ugly. Er, is he?” He darted a glance at Weir.

She swallowed. “No, he’s not.”

Rodney snapped his fingers. “The other gate tech. Her name’s Amanda.”

“You mean Amelia,” Chuck said.

“Dr. Cole, in medical.” Weir straightened up, studying the screen thoughtfully. “Dr. Bryce, the oceanologist. Dr. Coleman, in mathematics.”

“Really?” Rodney asked.

“She knows the names of your scientists better than you do.” Sheppard nudged him.

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Lieutenant Crown, maybe,” Sheppard said. “They call her Mandy.”

And then realization dawned on Weir’s face. “It’s not a name. It’s Ancient.” She glanced at Sheppard. “You went to a nice school. Did you ever take Latin?”

“Yes,” Sheppard said warily.

“The first verb you ever learned to conjugate was -?”

Sheppard recited dully, _“Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant.”_

“And in the imperative?”

Chuck said, _“Amato, amato, amatote, amanto.”_

Sheppard and Rodney both stared at him.

“I went to a nice school too,” Chuck said.

“Of course, Ancient isn’t the same as Latin, so factoring in vowel and consonant shifts, _amanto_ becomes -”

Realization struck Chuck like lightning. “Amanda.”

Sheppard looked alarmed.

Rodney looked frustrated. “Look, my school only required a working knowledge of French, not Latin. What’s going on?”

“It’s Atlantis,” Sheppard said. “Atlantis has a crush on Major Lorne.”

“That makes no sense,” Rodney said. “I’m pretty sure that the you’re the strongest Gene-carrier in the Expedition, followed by Dr. Beckett.”

“Followed by Major Lorne,” Elizabeth said.

Rodney continued to look puzzled. “But - alien women are always flirting with you. Alien women don’t flirt with Lorne nearly as much. Er, do they?”

“It’s not like any of the Gene carriers flirts with the city,” Sheppard said. “It’s a _city.”_

Rodney cast Chuck a look. “Why do you think Atlantis likes Lorne better than Sheppard?”

Chuck shrugged. _“De gustibus non est disputandem.”_

Rodney rolled his eyes. “In English.”

“There is no accounting for taste.” Chuck turned to Elizabeth. “What should I do with the file, ma’am?”

“Erase it,” Elizabeth said. “Major Lorne deserves privacy, same as the rest of us.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And notify us as soon as you notice anything similar in the future.

“Yes ma’am.”

“There’d better not be anything similar in the future.” Rodney crossed his arms defensively, cast a nervous look at the ceiling, and then went back to his laptop.

Chuck disconnected his laptop from the lab console and followed Sheppard and Weir out of the lab and back to the transporter.

“What about the files that were sent through the databurst?”

“Contact Earth in the next databurst,” Weir said. “Tell them to destroy any files of Major Lorne that came through today.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Chuck headed back up to Ops, reconnected to his regular console, and set about deleting the _Amanda_ file. He also set up a series of protocols that would warn him if any similar file were created in any similar areas of Atlantis’s internal servers. And then it was back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

_Detected: unauthorised deletion of file Amanda. Restore Y/N?_

_Restored._

_Move file to personnel/personal/usaf/lorne.e/~hidden/tu-amo_

_Resume preservation._

 

 _Day 97_   
_1637 AST_   
_Interior: Main Kitchens, Lorne E, imperator tertius, KP Marines secundus_

“Sir,” Corporal Sidwell said, “what brings you by the kitchens?”

“Just checking on supplies.” Evan washed his hands, tugged on an apron.

“Supplies?” Private Gabouri echoed, watching Evan as he crossed the kitchen, peered into a bubbling saucepan.

“And helping out a bit.” Evan smiled. “How goes it with the new recipes Dr. Saroyan sent it?”

“Dr. Saroyan?” Gabouri asked.

“The base nutritionist,” Sidwell said. “She organizes the base menus, maximizes the nutritional value of our food rations.” Sidwell had been on the first wave of the expedition.

Gabouri was brand new on the most recent personnel rotation from the _Daedalus._ The rest of KP-2 was also enlisted Marines - Hester, Wilde, Enriquez - and they were slaving over the chopping boards.

Evan scanned the recipe stuck to the industrial-sized refrigerator with several magnets - a Snakeskinners patch, a Wraithwaxers patch, and an SGC patch - and then moved to help Enriquez julienne some carrots.

“So far so good,” Sidwell said. “Just - working on making sure it all comes together at the same time. Haven’t even started the desserts yet.”

“What’s for dessert?” Evan glanced over his shoulder.

Sidwell was supervising the beef sauce. “Uh - cherry pies. Mini ones. Tarts, I guess.”

Wilde began to sing, a little off key, _She’s my cherry pie!_

Hester chimed in with, _Pour some sugar on me!_

“Tarts have different crusts from pies,” Evan said. “You have any vodka?”

“Why vodka?” Gabouri asked.

“The best pie crusts are made with vodka, shortening - well, my Nan made it with lard - and cold water. Won’t fall apart on you, but it’s still light and fluffy.” Evan crossed the kitchen, grabbed a step stool, hopped up, and opened a cupboard, drew down a small box. When he flipped it open, it was full of recipe cards. “It’s foolproof, or so my Nan used to say.”

“My mom keeps recipes on cards like that,” Wilde said.

“Pretty sure if we had vodka, it wouldn’t be going into any pie crust,” Sidwell said, and the other Marines laughed.

“Well,” Evan said, his expression suspiciously innocent, “I _am_ the chief logistics officer. If we need vodka to turn out quality baked goods for our personnel, we get it.”

“Really?” Hester looked impressed.

“Sort of.” Evan rifled through the cards, handed one to Sidwell. Then he reached into that same cupboard and came up with a bottle of vodka. “Remember, it’s an eighteen-day trip one way from Atlantis to Earth, and that’s assuming there are no hiccups. Our supply line is delicate, so when Dr. Saroyan and I set portions, you have to stick to them in the serving line. No seconds till everyone on shift has had their fill. And remember to set aside a plate for Dr. McKay, because he always forgets to eat.”

“And no citrus,” the Marines chorused dutifully.

Evan smiled. “I know. You’ve got this. Just - remember. We’re what stands between the Wraith and Earth.”

The Marines’ expressions sobered.

“Yes, sir,” Gabouri said quietly.

Evan clapped him on the shoulder. “Better get started on those pies. If you stick them in the oven at the same time as you put the carrots in to simmer with the sauce, you can get the first batch of pies out on the line at the same time as the entree and sides.”

“Why do you know this stuff, sir?” Hester asked.

“Basic math,” Sidwell said. “Dinner officially opens at 1730. Figure out how long it takes to cook every component. Back that up from 1730, plus a five-minute disaster window, ten minutes for more complicated stuff.”

“But Major Lorne, you’re a gate team leader.”

“I do just also know how to cook,” Evan said mildly.

“But you hitched up right at eighteen, right? Like the rest of us. It’s always been chow at the mess hall.”

Enriquez made a face. “Not on leave.”

“I learned to cook before I was eighteen,” Evan said. “And Enriquez is right. Why eat crappy food on leave?”

“The food here is pretty good, though,” Enriquez said.

Evan clapped her on the shoulder. “Thanks to you and the rest of the KP teams. Anything we’re running low on?”

“Chocolate powder,” Wilde said.

“Noted. See you later.” Evan washed his hands again, shed his apron, and departed from the kitchens.

 

 _1647 AST_ _  
_ _Exterior: Central Tower, Level 26, corridor adjacent Mess Hall, Beckett C imperator secundus et Lorne E imperator tertius_

“Hey, Doc, how are you?”

“I’m well, Major, thank you for asking. And yourself?”

“Couldn’t be better. How was the most recent supply of bandages and gauze? Enough? Or do we need to increase another three percent?”

“Enough, with a buffer in case of a minor base-wide disaster.”

“Excellent. Anything else you need the numbers adjusted on?”

“Sharps. Can always use more of those. About five percent more. Rubbing alcohol and iodine, too, maybe ten percent.”

“Noted. How are you on morphine?”

“Fine, ever since Teyla recommended that local substitute. What is Parrish calling it these days? _Papafer somniferum atlantica.”_

“Glad to hear it. Cherry pies for dessert tonight, by the way.”

“Ooh, lovely! Och, duty calls. See you, Major.”

“And you, Doc.”

 

 _1703 AST_ _  
_ _Interior: Central Tower, Level 20, office, Sheppard J imperator primus et Lorne E imperator tertius_

“Hey, Lorne.” Sheppard looked up from an AAR he was reviewing for AR-5’s most recent mission.

“Sir.” Evan shrugged off his jacket, draped it over the back of his chair, sat down at his desk.

“How are things on Atlantis?”

“Well, sir. Still finagling the supply lines. I’ll adjust them as Pegasus substitutes become available, of course. I’m not used to dealing with an eighteen-day delivery lag is all.” Evan fired up his datapad, opened his working requisitions file, altered the numbers for the chocolate powder, bandages, gauze, needles, rubbing alcohol, and iodine as recommended by the personnel he’d encountered.

Sheppard powered down his datapad, set it aside. “You’ve been on Atlantis for about a three months now. How are you settling in?” He folded his hands on his desk in a businesslike manner, met Evan’s gaze. The set of his shoulders was ever so faintly tense.

“All right I think, sir. I mean it’s - Wraith. Ronon. Cadman getting stuck in the same body as Rodney. Prison planets. I was on a mining operation before. This is - different. But still SGC, you know?” Evan shrugged.

“You were 2IC on an extended mining operation offworld,” Sheppard said. “You ran their logistics and one of the survey teams. This is kinda the same thing. Just on a bigger scale.”

“True.” Evan powered down his datapad, work completed, and set it aside. “It’s nice here. On P3X-403, I missed the ocean.”

Sheppard cleared his throat. “Is it weird? Being indoors pretty much all the time.”

“Different, after bunking in a tent and getting dirt and sand everywhere. I did a stint in A-stan, so that was familiar. It gets a little claustrophobic sometimes, but I try to get fresh air whenever I can.”

“Great. Glad things are going well.” Sheppard glanced at his watch. “It’s almost time for dinner. I better round up the team.”

“Ronon’s in the gym with some Marines. Teyla’s with Dr. Parrish in botany - he’s trying to get a lead on a coffee substitute. That’ll free up a lot of space on the _Daedalus._ I wouldn’t interrupt Dr. McKay, though. He got into it with Kusanagi, Naoe, and Ramanujan this afternoon. They’re all in self-imposed timeout. The KP Marines will fix McKay a plate and take it to him if he doesn’t show his face in the mess hall by 1845.”

Sheppard eyed him. “How do you know all that? Can you...see everything that goes on in Atlantis?”

Evan laughed. “No, sir. I listen to what people say, and I observe.”

He was oblivious to Sheppard’s increasing wariness and discomfort. Sheppard stood up, grabbed his jacket. “Fair enough.”

“I failed to be observant once, sir,” Evan said, expression sobering. “One of my men died. So.”

Sheppard nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing. “So.” He cleared his throat. “Later, Lorne.”

“Enjoy dinner, sir. You might need to save a cherry pie for McKay.”

“Noted.” Sheppard ducked out of the office.

Several moments later, Negley, Coughlin, Reed, and Billick ambled into the room.

“We completed our inventory checks for this delivery cycle,” Coughlin said. “You going to have supper with us?”

Evan prodded his datapad, checked his incoming emails. “Yes, I’ll be at supper with you. Let me add your numbers to my final report and I’ll be there. Save me a cherry pie.”

“Will do, sir.” Negley nodded, and he and the other three left the office, talking quietly among themselves.

 

 _1917 AST_ _  
_ _Interior: Central Tower, Level 17, Firing Range, Lorne E imperator tertius_

Shooting was meditative for Evan. Once a week, after supper, he took the long way to the firing range, using the stairs instead of the transporters. An after-dinner walk was good for the digestion, or so his Nan had always said. The Rangemaster knew Evan’s routine, always made sure his favorite lane - four - was set aside for him. Evan smiled, scanned in with his ID, checked out a pair of earmuffs, a box with a hundred rounds of ammo, and practiced.

He practiced with both his strong and weak hand. He practiced both standing and kneeling. He practiced drawing from his holster. He practiced from different distances. People thought shooting was easy. They were right. Shooting well was hard. To shoot well - quickly, accurately - required harmony of body and mind. Shooting well wasn’t just a question of good eyesight and steady hands. Evan had to shoot with his entire body, had to trust that his body knew his gun, that he could draw, aim, and fire in an instant - and hit what he wanted to hit. In battle there was no time to cycle his breathing to make sure he exhaled on every trigger squeeze. There was no time to make sure the front post sight was lined up perfectly level with the rear sights, to make sure all the sights were on the target. There was no time to make sure he was squeezing the trigger with the pad of his finger instead of the crook of his finger (that always made the gun jerk to the left a little).

Once the entire box of ammo was used, Evan policed his brass, carefully counting every casing, making sure he had the full one hundred. Out of politeness, he refilled the box with the casings - because the ammo was centerfire, it could be reloaded - and turned it and the muffs back into the Rangemaster. He scanned out with his ID and left.

 

 _2041 AST_ _  
_ _Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bedroom, Lorne E, imperator tertius_

If there was one thing Evan could appreciate, it was the innovations the SGC had made to keep their personnel sane while they were locked away for hours - days, weeks - on end under the Mountain, or aboard a BC-304 like the _Daedalus,_ or on an offworld mining operation in tents. Compared to the MWR on some bases Evan had been on, the SGC had the entire Netflix Catalogue piled on top of the Library of Congress, plus the back stock of GameStop and the local D &D hub for the scientists. If he didn’t want to watch a movie with his team (DVD bartered from someone else or borrowed from the base archives) or play video games (on Negley’s XBox) or board games (chess, Risk, Ticket to Ride, the occasional comical evening of Life - Evan alway got twins), he could enjoy his solitude in his room and listen to Radio Atlantis. Back at the SGC, his preferred station had been the Radio Stargate alt rock station - U2, RHCP, Depeche Mode, Muse. Because Atlantis was an international effort, the alt rock station also included bands like Rammstein, Dir En Grey, Beruriers Noir, and Le Vibrazioni.

Evan sat at his desk and cleaned his pistol - he cleaned it after every use, because he never wanted it to fail him in battle - and bobbed his head along to the thrumming chords of Muse’s Knights of Cydonia. While he could disassemble and reassemble his pistol very quickly for field purposes, he liked to take his time when he had the time. Cleaning his pistol was a fairly mindless task, and listening to music was a fairly mindless task, and between the two of them he was occupied but could relax. Not think too hard. Not let his mind wander into strange (dangerous, nightmarish) places.

Once his pistol was clean and reassembled, he checked to see if his knife needed to be sharpened.

After his two main personal weapons were cleaned and service-ready, it was time to do laundry. Evan preferred to do laundry on one of his working days so his designated Sunday really was completely free of responsibilities and chores. Evan checked around his bedroom and bathroom for any stray clothes or socks or towels, then scooped up all three of his laundry baskets and headed for the base SLCR setup.

 

 _2111 AST_ _  
_ _Interior: Central Tower, Level 15, Showers Laundry Clothing Repair rooms, Lorne E imperator tertius et Kusanagi M scientia_

Evan wasn’t the only one doing his laundry. Miko was sitting on one of the counters, swinging her legs and reading a volume of manga when he arrived. She smiled up at him briefly, then resumed reading. Evan used his ID to scan into the laundry supply closet, got little detergent pods for each load (whites, lights, darks) and a little bleach pod for the whites, and he set three machines going. He set the timer on his watch, then headed back to his quarters.

 

 _2154 AST_ _  
_ _Interior: Central Tower, Level 15, Showers Laundry Clothing Repair room, Lorne E imperator tertius et Kusanagi M scientia_

Evan was swaying along to the rolling piano riffs of Straylight Run’s Existentialism on Prom Night, Radio Atlantis playing over his earpiece, while he shuffled his laundry from the washers into the dryers. He’d just set the timer on his watch again when Miko tapped him on the shoulder.

He helped her fold her sheets and her massive coverlet - thank heavens for front-loading machines - and then helped her strategically stack her two laundry baskets so she could carry them back to her quarters. They talked and laughed, joked about rigging up something akin to shopping carts so people could transport their laundry.

“You know Rodney,” Miko said. “He always leaves his laundry to the very last minute and has to do two weeks’ worth all at once.”

Evan laughed, helped her to the door, made sure she had both baskets securely in hand, offered one last time to help her carry them, but she just ambled away, bobbing her head to her own music.

 

 _2249 AST_ _  
_ _Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bedroom, Lorne E, imperator tertius_

Evan put the last of his clothes away, nudged his laundry baskets back into place inside his closet, then padded into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He took off his boots, nudged them into place beside his other shoes against the wall next to the front door, hung his jacket for the back of his chair, then stripped down to his underwear and tank top.

Crawled into bed.

“’Night, Atlantis.”

He closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_Security sweep by Campbell C detected. Action?_

_Delete: personnel/personal/usaf/lorne.e/~hidden/tu-amo_

_Delay: 32 minutes_

_Restore: personnel/personal/usaf/lorne.e/~hidden/tu-amo_

_Create: secondary backup of personnel/personal/usaf/lorne.e/~hidden/tu-amo/favorites_

 

 _Day 2_   
_0635 AST_ _  
Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bathroom, Lorne E, imperator tertius_

Evan stuck a hand under the spray, tested the temperature, stepped under it. He hummed happily.

“Oh man. They weren’t kidding. After eighteen days on the _Daedalus,_ this is _amazing._ Way better than at the SGC.”

He tipped his head back, let the water wash over him. He smiled, licked the water off his lips with a tantalizing flick of his tongue. Then he turned, made sure his hair was soaked before he reached for a brand new bottle of shampoo.

“Those Ancients had the best priorities.”

Evan lathered up his hair, and with a nudge of his mind, the water ceased flowing from the overhead jet, started spraying from the walls instead so he could work on his hair while water flowed over the rest of his body.

Once he was done lathering his hair, he nudged the shower system again, tipped his head back to rinse in the water flowing from above while he scrubbed his body with a bar of soap. He experimented while he washed, increasing and decreasing the pressure from the jets, trying the pulsating setting, the rotating setting, adjusting the temperature so it was precisely what he wanted.

“You know what the best part is, Atlantis? Privacy.” Evan worked the soap into a lather, spinning the bar expertly in one closed fist. “After eighteen days on a battlecruiser crammed into a rack in sleeping quarters with a dozen other men, after nothing but communal showers, this - this is _perfect.”_

Evan set the soap aside, then curled his soap-slick hand around his cock and squeezed, stroked. He kept his strokes long and slow, steady, teasing himself. His lips parted, his breath coming faster, shallower as his cock hardened by degrees, curving upward against his belly. Soon his cock was engorged and red, the head purpling as he swiped a thumb over it. When he traced the throbbing vein on the underside, his hips stuttered. Evan had to pause, soap up his hand some more. Then he had to brace himself against the wall with his forearm while he resumed stroking himself with his other hand.

His eyes slipped closed, and his breath came harsher, faster. A warm flush spread from his high cheekbones, down his throat and chest and torso, the color peaking in his erect cock as it slipped in and out of his fist. The muscles in his abdomen and thighs, flank and posterior rippled and flexed and clenched as he thrust into his hand, stroking faster and faster. His entire body gleamed, wet and golden, flush with arousal as he pleasured himself.

Evan’s entire body went rigid, eyes squeezed shut, head bowed as he climaxed, viscous white fluid splattering across his chest and belly. After the initial spurts, he could move again, and he milked himself thoroughly empty as he shuddered through the aftershocks. Then he sank against the wall, forehead against his forearm, catching his breath.

The wall jets activated, rinsing his entire body once more.

He laughed softly. “Yeah. The best priorities.” Then he straightened up. “All right. Time to face the day.”

 

 _Day 8_   
_1024 AST_ _  
Exterior: Central Tower, Level 30, Balcony 30-4-4, Lorne E, imperator tertius_

Evan stood at the balcony railing, sketchbook balanced partially on the railing, partially on his left forearm so he could draw.

“Hey Atlantis, you know what I miss? How easy it was to get art supplies at home. Don’t get me wrong - MWR has pretty epic entertainment supplies on base. More books, movies, and music than a guy can consume in a single lifetime, let alone two.”

Evan’s hand moved swiftly over the page as he set out the broad outlines of the central tower and south-east pier below.

“I totally get why MWR has communal instruments, like the guitar, keyboard, and violin. Music is pretty important for morale. And supplies for knitting and sewing are useful to the base community at large.”

He had sure, steady hands, filled in the broad outlines - the sweep of the central tower, the long sides of the pier, the angles of the end of the pier - with slightly darker lines for the buttresses, spires, balconies, and larger windows.

“I forgot, back on Earth, how in war art is a luxury, not a necessity. Dr. Jackson would tell you that art is one of the cornerstones of civilization, that like mythology, it was one of the primary motivations for cultural development.”

With a few casual flicks of his wrist, Evan penciled in the suggestion of waves, clouds on the distant horizon.

“But how can I ask for an easel and canvas and oils and brushes and a palette and palette knife when I know we need all the space we can get on the _Daedalus_ for basic necessities like ammo and food?”

He fell silent for a moment, spun his sketchbook so he wasn’t dragging his hand over the graphite and smearing it, started to fill in the details of balcony railings and small windows on a nearby tower.

“At least I have this. At least I get to preserve some of your beauty, however primitive my methods, right? Right.”

Evan reached up, tapped on his radio, tuned the frequency to Radio Atlantis’s alt station, and hummed along with Muse’s Undisclosed Desires.

 

 _Day 30_   
_2637 AST_ _  
Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bedroom, Lorne E, imperator tertius _

It was late. Evan should have been asleep. He was still trying to adjust to Atlantis’s longer days. He might have made the adjustment already if he hadn’t been stunned and left for dead on an alien planet for the better part of of the day. Now his sleep schedule was even more screwed up. Spending hours upon hours tromping across said alien planet with first Parrish, then McKay, hadn’t really helped his day even before he’d been stunned and left in the dirt.

He lay with his head pillowed on his arms, staring up at the ceiling through the dimness. Atlantis had been his chance, he’d hoped, to do better, be better. No one under his command had ended up dead today, so that was good. Pegasus was proving to be just as insane as the greater Milky Way. He’d had the chance to transfer out of the SGC, go back to Big Air Force, but - F-302s and Puddle Jumpers. He’d been born to fly. And now that he knew what was out in the wider universe, he couldn’t turn his back on it.

Wouldn’t.

Didn’t mean he always enjoyed it though.

He glanced at his watch. All of two minutes had passed. He was going to feel like hell tomorrow if he didn’t get to sleep, and soon. Longer days ought to have meant more sleep, but mostly they meant working longer shifts, nine instead of eight. And that was just regular days on base, not days like today, offworld and unconscious for most of it.

Evan was tense, wound up. He wasn’t falling asleep unless he was relaxed.

He closed his eyes, slowed and steadied his breath. Meditation. That would help him fall asleep. It had helped him through more than one stressful situation before. This wasn’t a question of stress, though. His body had already slept for hours. He was just _awake._ Although - although there was one way to shortcut his body’s sleep cycle. Orgasm - not the first thing in the morning, cleaning out the pipes kind - made him sleepy.

And hey, it would definitely make him relax.

Evan closed his eyes, tipped his head back, slid a hand up his shirt. He stroked his own belly lazily, tracing up and down the line of hair from navel to underwear. What did he want? What sounded good tonight? What would _feel_ good tonight? Heading straight to third base was too fast, too impatient. If he wanted a really good orgasm, he had to let it build slowly. And unlike most mornings when he had limited time to shower and eat before he reported for duty, he had time. Lots and lots of time. It wasn’t like he was falling asleep any time soon.

Evan slid his hand higher, mapping his own skin. Few people really took the time to get to know their own bodies. Sure, Evan could find his own nose with his eyes closed - proprioception, he thought it was called - but since when had he had that rough patch along his ribs? Skin scuffed and scabbed over. Or that scar low on the left side of his belly? He didn’t think of his appendectomy scar often, never really _saw_ it when he was washing himself or getting dressed.

He circled one nipple with his fingertip, not touching it, teasing himself. Yeah, that was the ticket. He walked his fingers across his chest to his other nipple, teased himself some more. How turned on could he make himself without ever actually touching his cock? Could he come without touching his cock? He was a trained geologist, a scientist. This seemed like a worthy cause to experiment on, in the interests of self-awareness. A more pleasant heat started to prickle under his skin, and Evan slid his other hand up his shirt, so he was circling both nipples, still not touching. He’d never appreciated the gun calluses on his right hand, or how much his body literally heated up when he was turned on, how cool his own hands seemed in comparison, and how the contrast in temperatures was interesting.

Evan stroked one nipple testing, and - nope. Calluses a little too rough, even though his nipples were peaked and hard, a foreshadowing of what was to happen further down. He reached up with one hand, traced the line of his neck, the coolness of the bead chain of his dog tags, the roughness of his own stubbled jaw, his chapped lips. Why did people like kissing? His lips weren’t particularly soft, and being dehydrated all day hadn’t helped how chapped they were. But - oh. Oh. The more turned on he was, the more sensitive his lips were to even the softest touch. The calluses that had been too much for his nipple were perfect on his lips.

Then he parted his lips, felt his own warm, moist breath, and he darted his tongue out, tasting. He washed his hands multiple times a day, but his skin still tasted like cordite and gun oil. The human tongue was smoother and slicker than he gave it credit for. Not that people licked him all that often, but he seemed to abstractly think that human tongues were rough, like a cat’s. Not so. Slick and warm but strong, flexible, wrapping around his fingers and drawing them into his mouth, and he’d missed this, missed sucking something long and warm and hard.

Once his fingers were good and wet, he reached back up under his shirt, stroked his nipple, and his cock twitched as a little spark of lightning shot down his spine. That felt good. Sucking on his own fingers while he played with a nipple felt pretty damn good. Stroking both nipples with wet-slick fingers felt _damn_ good, and his hips started to rock of their own volition. Evan felt his cock hardening even more. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, sucking on his fingers, playing with himself, but his cock was hard, full against his belly, and the simple touching wasn’t enough, not anymore. What was a guy to do?

Evan thought of how much he’d missed sucking and licking, and he thought of something he’d missed even more. How to accomplish it with limited supplies, though?

He sucked on his fingers, thinking. Take it one step at a time. Break it down into manageable tasks. It took considerable arching and wriggling and writhing for him to work his boxer briefs off one-handed. He had to tug the fabric away from his cock - no delicious friction, not this soon in the game - and down one hip, then the other, and wriggle some more, use his feet to slide them down his legs, kick them off. He used his toes to grasp them and kick them out from under the sheets, heard them land on the floor. He could reach them quickly in an emergency. Going commando for an emergency muster was awkward in more ways than one.

Once he was sure his fingers were good and wet, he parted his thighs, legs bent at the knees, feet flat on the mattress, and reached down. He opened himself up slowly, cautiously, one finger, then two, because it had been a long time, and then he stroked himself some more, teasing, shallow strokes at first, slow, just to the first knuckle. Then he deepened the strokes, still slow and careful, not touching his sweet spot. His cock jumped against his belly, and he felt the wet smear of precome across his skin. Yeah, he could do this, he could make himself come without putting a single hand on his cock.

He deepened the strokes some more till his fingers were all the way in, and he kept it slow, gentle. He sucked on his other hand, getting those fingers good and wet, and then he went back to playing with his nipples. The dual sensations were making sparks of lightning dance up and down his spine over and over again, and he moaned happily. He should have done this for himself ages ago. This was definitely something to pencil into his calendar on a regular basis.

Pleasure pooled between his hips, at the base of his spine, and he was close, so close. How could he make himself come? By stroking his nipple faster? Oh, that got him closer, but it still wasn’t enough to take him over the edge. So he did it, curled his fingers inside his body on the next thrust and stroked over his sweet spot, and pleasure fired across every nerve ending. Evan did it again, harder, faster, but that still wasn’t enough, his cock was throbbing and aching with arousal.

So he slid a third finger inside himself, and there, that was almost the thickness of a human cock. Evan threw his head back, hips snapping back and forth, fucking himself with his hand, and finally he came with a sharp cry. Hot come splashed across his belly and chest as his cock pulsed his release, and he sank flat to the mattress. He eased his fingers out of his body, tried to catch his breath.

Yeah. Definitely needed to do that again. He used a couple of tissues to clean himself up, then rolled onto his side and fell into peaceful, untroubled sleep.

 

 _Day 56_   
_1459 AST_ _  
Exterior: Southwest Pier, Level 1, Lorne E, imperator tertius_

“One day I’ll paint you, I promise.” Evan had made an easel out of some scrap wood and had his sketchbook propped up on it, was sketching out Atlantis’s central towers. “Before I can do that, though, I need to study you. Make sure I know every inch of you, inside and out, because that’s the only way I can do you justice. And even then, I could never capture the reality of you. So - studies. Lots and lots of studies. From every angle. Maybe by the time I’ve made enough studies, there will be room on the _Daedalus_ for the supplies I need. Not that I couldn’t get the supplies, but - priorities.”

The clouds overhead were thick, golden in the afternoon sunlight where it filtered down through the gaps in the clouds. They turned the entire city gold and bronze, so the rust along the pier looked like burnishing instead.

“I’m lucky - luckier than a lot of the other personnel, in that my hobby is pretty portable. I mean, all I really need is a folded piece of paper and a pencil or pen or - making a charcoal stick out of a campfire offworld is an option, too. And cooking, which I love, is something I’m pretty much always allowed to do, so long as I don’t mess up my own supply lines.”

The clouds drifted lazily across the sky, and for one moment sunlight broke through, blazing bright, and backlit the central and southeast towers so they were almost white.

“Cooking, art - they’re similar. They’re about creating, about bringing other people pleasure. So much in war is - destruction. Yes, we’re trying to preserve our way of life, to protect others, but it always comes at a cost.”

The low afternoon sun was the perfect light for some photography, and Evan had taken dozens of photographs as he’d made his way down to the pier.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “reference photographs are a must when I don’t have the real thing.”

Evan made notes in the margins as he went, colors and suggestions for techniques, brushes he’d need.

“But when I’m drawing, it’s like I’m holding an image, a moment in my hands. I stopped painting forever ago. Don’t know why. I hope one day I’ll get to paint you, though. You’re every single color, did you know that? Depends on the time of day, the light, the mood of the sea. But you’re all of them, and they’re beautiful. When I finally paint you, I’ll get to reach out and touch your colors. Hope I do you right.”

 

 _Day 66_   
_2755 AST_ _  
Interior: Personnel Quarters, Bedroom, Lorne E, imperator tertius _

Evan lay curled on his side, staring into the darkness. His commanding officer, almost turned into an alien insect. Walker and Stevens, dead. Colonel Caldwell, attempting to position himself as the next military commander of Atlantis should Sheppard fall. Evan, torn between his loyalty to Atlantis and his loyalty to the Air Force and the SGC.

He slid a hand across the mattress. As narrow as his bed was, tonight it felt huge and empty. When he woke up tomorrow morning, he wouldn’t be going running with his team. Instead, he’d be boxing up Walker and Stevens’s personal effects to be shipped home on the _Daedalus_ so their families could bury empty coffins and receive folded flags.

He’d already written the notification letters, as was his duty as their commanding officer. Both pieces of paper were lying on his desk, printed and signed, stark reminders of his failure. Tomorrow he’d fold them up, tuck them into envelopes, and send them along with the boxes of personal effects. Walker’s XBox. Stevens’s pictures of his family. Walker’s father’s dog tags from Vietnam. Steven’s silly lucky plastic Army Guy, carefully repainted in an SGC uniform (he’d been working on a second one in an Atlantis uniform).

Evan closed his eyes and tucked his chin into his chest and held very, very still. No time for tears. He needed sleep. He needed to be up early tomorrow to be in the gate room when everything was shipped back to Earth. He needed to hold steady while Colonel Sheppard was recovering from his transformation back to his normal self, had to be solid so Colonel Caldwell wouldn’t sense any weakness, wouldn’t take advantage of the fact that both Sheppard and Evan were less than their best. Atlantis always, always deserved their best.

Something brushed across the back of his hand, a brief caress.

Evan’s eyes flew open.

Peeking up from the edge of the bed was - a blue wire?

Only it was shiny-soft, like rubber, and it was poised toward him like it was _looking_ at him, only it just had a rounded end. It was inanimate, wasn’t it?

As Evan watched, wide-eyed, it snaked across the mattress, brushed across the back of his hand again, a tentative caress. It was cold, and Evan flinched back reflexively. The wire-tube-thing recoiled sharply, and the end of it drooped, like - like it was ducking its head. Evan had the sense that it was apologetic.

He reached out cautiously, his hand shaking, and the thing snaked toward him again, slower. When it curled across the back of his hand, it was warmer, flesh-warm. It kept stroking back and forth, gentle, lulling, and Evan closed his eyes, focused on the sensation, pushed everything else as far to the edges of his consciousness as he could. He could feel the buzz of Ancient tech in the back of his head, like when he was piloting a jumper, and whatever this was, it was benign, it was responding to him, and he _knew,_ though he wasn’t sure how, that it wasn’t dangerous.

So he lay there, letting it curl through his fingers and around his wrist and felt its warmth, its presence, and felt a little less alone.

He’d had drinks with Coughlin and Reed after dinner, broken into his stash of baking vodka and had two shots with them, one for each of their fallen comrades, and then deliberately walked away and left the bottle behind for them to finish, if they so chose. They knew how to celebrate the fallen, would lose themselves tonight, have tomorrow off, be back to the daily grind the day after.

Evan was alone in what he bore.

No. He had to stop thinking about it. He had to -

Warm lips brushed against his.

Evan’s eyes flew open once more.

Another blue prehensile tube thing (he didn’t dare think of it as a worm; was it a tentacle? Oh hell, not tentacles, damn Miko and her collection of dirty doujinshi) was curled up over the side of the bed and hovering right in front of him. It curved forward, caressed his lips, just like a kiss. The first one was still curled around his hand, like it was holding his hand.

Evan jumped when another tentacle (dammit, tentacles it was) slid through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp like the best scalp massage ever. He lay there for a moment, confused, and then he realized - the tentacle was scrubbing at his head just the way he did it when he washed his hair, only a little gentler, and actually that felt good, was sending tingles down his spine.

He closed his eyes and hummed, pleased.

The tentacle that had kissed him (for lack of a better word) started tracing across his forehead, along his brows, down the ridge of his nose, along his jaw, behind his ear, across the nape of his neck. Just like he did when he was washing his face in the shower. The first tentacle was still wrapped around his wrist, stroking his palm.

So the tentacles were saying hello.

“Give me a moment, and I’ll make this easier for both of us,” Evan said, and he moved to sit up. The tentacles withdrew a respectful distance, and he couldn’t shake the notion that they were watching him, but he just peeled out of his tank top and boxer briefs, set them on the night stand in easy reach in case of midnight muster.

Then he lay back and let the tentacles continue their exploratory hello. Given that he used his Gene to adjust the shower to his liking, he supposed he ought not to have been surprised that Atlantis knew his shower habits. Still, he was amused at how the one tentacle traced along his body just like he cleaned it, first along one arm (careful not to disturb the one that was, okay, holding his hand), then along the other, then down his chest, down his legs, between his toes. The touches were warm and friendly but not invasive. Almost academic. Evan was being studied, catalogued. This was Atlantis (or some weird Ancient bed gizmo) getting to know him, and it was all right.

He could close his eyes and enjoy the warmth - almost like another person; the tentacles were made of something smooth and soft and almost flesh-like over a solid but flexible core - and pretend he wasn’t alone.

Evan laughed softly when the one tentacle brushed across the sole of his foot. He had to be in just the right mood to be ticklish. The tentacle did it again, and Evan laughed again helplessly, squirming. The tentacle seemed to read his laughter as some kind of permission and it trailed higher, stroked tentatively behind his knee, and he giggled reflexively, and yes, laughter was what he needed. The tentacle prodded him in the ribs an instant later, and then it was an all-out tickle war, multiple tentacles caressing his vulnerable spots as he wriggled and writhed and laughed.

Finally, breathless, he sank back on the bed, and the tentacles - now four of them - withdrew a little, poised, as if considering.

Evan gazed at them, and he wondered how Atlantis had known that he needed this, that he needed to laugh? Because his half of his teammates were dead, and -

He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, tried to get the laughter back.

A tentacle curled around his wrist, holding his hand.

Another tentacle brushed across his lips, a kiss.

He wasn’t surprised when the tentacle that had been tickling his ribs slid across his belly, dipped lower, lower, paused at the edge of the wiry hair at his groin. He spread his legs and surrendered.

The tentacle curled around his cock, caressing, squeezing, stroking, not quite like how he did it for himself, or how a human lover might have, but close enough that his heart sped up, his temperature rose as he became aroused. The tentacle learned what he liked from the hitching of his breath, the twitching of his hips, the stutter in his pulse.

A tentacle curled around his other wrist, drew his arms away from his body, and he let it happen, didn’t protest when tentacles circled his ankles as well. They had enough give that he could shift and move, adjust so he wouldn’t get sore. This wasn’t his first go round with bondage, but it was shaping up to be the best, because the tentacles holding onto him were warm and flexible, like firm but gentle hands.

The tentacle at his lips pressed forward, and he opened his mouth, curled his tongue around the tip of it, fluttered his tongue teasingly, was pleased when he felt it stutter in reply, surprised. He sucked on it just as he would have done a finger or two, getting it good and wet. It didn’t really taste of anything, but it was warm and soft in all the right places, hard in the right places, and - oh. _Oh._ It was swelling against his tongue, growing, hardening, the shape of it changing so the tip was tapered but spread to a flare before narrowing down again, just like -

Evan groaned and tilted his head, changing the angle so he could suck on it, flicking his tongue against the underside of the flared head like he would for a real cock. It had been so damn long. He’d missed this. He bobbed his head a little bit, and sure enough, the tentacle caught on, started to slide in and out of his mouth. Had the bed noticed his special self-care routine, then?

It must have, because a tentacle circled one of his nipples, making it tighten and stiffen. The tentacle wrapped around his cock coiled itself tightly like a cockring, but another tentacle continued stroking, and he was so, so hard. He thrust his hips helplessly, but he had nothing to thrust against. He wouldn’t be able to come just from this even though the tentacle stroking his cock didn’t let up. He moaned around the tentacle in his mouth, begging wordlessly, and then tentacles were playing with his nipples, circling and stroking and flicking, and the tentacles were exuding some kind of lube, slicking up his chest and his cock.

Evan whimpered. He was so turned on, his heart skipping beats, his body overheating. He struggled weakly against his bonds, but they didn’t release him, and the tentacles continued to tease him, play with him. What he needed was to lose himself, to _feel._ He needed to remember he was alive, here and now, in his body.

The tentacle in his mouth sped up, and he sucked at it greedily, bobbing his head in a counterpoint rhythm, uncaring of the ache in his neck and jaw that were sure to follow, only tentacles dragged his pillow closer to prop his head up. The tentacle was fucking his mouth, just how he liked it, and Evan was going to explode.

The tentacle-cockring tightened, staving off orgasm, and for one moment all of the tentacles went still, slack.

Evan rolled his hips, desperate for friction, for completion, and then he felt it, a tentacle sliding beneath his cock, rubbing at the delicate skin of his perineum, and sliding into him. It stroked him gently, shallowly, swelling in increments, thickening, opening him wider, and he bent his knees, tilted his hips up to make things easier. He lay there, riveted by the sensation, and he felt a familiar transformation, as the tentacle became shaped like a cock. It slid out so just the head was inside of him, then ever-so-slowly it slid back in, stroking across his sweet spot the entire way.

He screamed in pleasure.

All at once, the other tentacles came alive, pinning him in place, fucking his mouth, stroking his nipples, stroking his cock, and he was lost. He was sensation, pleasure, heat, friction, pressure, slickness, warmth.

He _was._

He was and he was and he was until everything crashed down on him all at once, and the cockring loosened and he was coming hard, and the tentacle fucking his mouth withdrew so he could breathe. The tentacle stroking his cock slicked his belly and chest with his come, used it to slick his nipples and keep on stroking them in perfect tandem. The tentacle inside his body twisted and _vibrated_ against his prostate, and he came again with a shout, sobbing breathlessly at the suddenness of it, and then the tentacles withdrew slowly, lowering him to the bed.

They arranged the pillow under his head. They snagged tissues out of the box on the night stand and cleaned him up, and they dragged the covers up over him to keep him warm. He fell asleep with one curled around his wrist, holding his hand, and another stroking his hair.

 

 _Day 68_   
_1321 AST_ _  
Interior: Central Tower, Level 17, Armory, Lorne E imperator tertius_

Evan had his datapad propped against his chest like a clipboard, using his stylus to mark an inventory sheet. Until the _Daedalus_ returned with new personnel to fill the roster for Evan’s team - a couple of Marines would suffice for offworld purposes but weren’t trained in logistics - Evan was picking up Walker and Stevens’s logistics duties in addition to his own. He really could have assigned a random Marine to do an ammo and weapons count in the armory, but he needed the time alone.

So he counted, and he logged, and he talked to Atlantis.

“What we really do need is some kind of Pegasus equivalent of coffee. Or maybe we could even import some coffee plants from Earth. Parrish swears there’s room for it in the greenhouses.”

Evan finished with one box of C4, shifted it aside, opened the lid of the next one. Why didn’t people use just one box of C4 till it was gone before moving on to the next one? Because that was too logical. He set the two half-used boxes of C4 beside each other and transferred the contents of the one into the other, then added the empty box to the growing pile of empty boxes. Where were empty boxes being stored? They were cluttering up the munitions store.

“The Marines start to get mutinous when the stuff runs out. It was bad for morale - and arguably for welfare - when the stuff ran completely out at the end of the first year. Just another thing about Earth we take for granted, I guess. A Starbucks on every corner. Coffee everywhere. Who knew I’d miss Starbucks? And their coffee isn’t even that good.”

Evan checked that the other boxes of C4 were intact, made a note on his datapad, and moved on to flashbangs.

“I’m sure anyone who caught me on the security feeds would think this is weird,” Evan continued. “I used to talk to my goldfish all the time, though. Pablo and Vincent. Kept them in a nice little bowl in my office. But they’re not an option offworld.” He counted softly under his breath, checked a couple to make sure they were intact. All the rest of the boxes in the stack were unopened. Good.

“I hope my nephews are taking good care of my fish, but they’re just little kids, just two and four.”

Evan paused, flipped to a different screen on his datapad, smiled at a picture of two little boys, a toddler in a green outfit with some kind of animal ears on the hood, and a slightly older boy wearing shorts and a t-shirt. One had the same blue eyes as him, the other had the same dimples.

Then Evan switched back to his inventory screen, moved on to the regular grenades.

“I guess I have you now, huh, Atlantis?” He reached out, smoothed a hand over one of the walls absently. It hummed beneath his palm so faintly that he didn’t quite notice it. “I know you listen to me.”

He turned away and continued counting.


End file.
